A/N: Hey! Thank you all who read and/or reviewed All For You! Your comments were so very thoughtful; I appreciated them. You guys gave me the inspiration to write more of Hetalia, so here you are! I hope I've done my favorite characters/OTPs justice! Enjoy!

One Saturday evening, at a corner bar in Paris, a pale, silver-haired man sat at the counter, drumming his fingers against his thigh as he scrolled through his text messages. The bar was dimly lit, not sleazy or pulsing with awful music, and had a good menu regarding liquor choices. The man usually came here on his infrequent visits to Paris; it was his favorite bar in France. Normally, he only came to France on 'business trips' to meet with Francis and Antonio, his two best friends for the past few centuries. Suddenly, his phone vibrated, and a flashing icon appeared, alerting him to a new message. Gilbert Beilschmidt's crimson eyes glanced to the message and opened it with a touch of his thumb.

The Second Most Awesomest Person: i'm on my way, see you around 8.

Gilbert glanced at the clock overhead the counter: seven forty-nine. He quickly pressed 'reply' and began typing out his response.

The Awesome Me: yo, what took you so long? they hold you up at the borders again?

The reply came moments after his message sent.

The Second Most Awesomest Person: nah, boyfriend problems.

The Awesome Me: brother, let me tell you about boyfriend problems.

Gilbert sighed and placed his phone gingerly back on the counter's smooth, wooden surface. He unzipped his leather jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. Boyfriend troubles. The words rang in his mind. In fact, it'd been on his mind all week long. His boyfriend, a slender Austrian musician with chestnut-brown hair and violet eyes that usually narrowed in Gilbert's presence, had been giving him more problems than usual. Gilbert loved Roderich Edelstein, he really did, but he wasn't one to show it. Gilbert hated all of that mushy, romantic behaviour that women drooled over. He could love Roderich without having to serenade him or recite poetry or leave bouquets of roses strewn on his piano while they had dinner by candlelight on the veranda. Romance just wasn't his style.

That week, Roderich and Gilbert had been fighting more often than usual. Their arguments were usually petty and short-lived, but lately, the Austrian had found more ways to criticize Gilbert's attitude than usual.

"Gilbert, you could at least act like you care."

"Gilbert, don't do that! Are you an idiot? Oh, wait, of course you are!"

"Gilbert, at least try to do something right, won't you?"

The Prussian sighed. Roderich was a priss, that was true, but he could also nag and yell like there was no tomorrow. It seemed as though Gilbert himself was the cause of their relationship problems - Roderich always claimed to love Gilbert, but never failed to point out every flaw he could find in his boyfriend.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. Some boyfriend, unappreciative of his awesome self! Any person in the world, male or female, would kill to wake up next to him every morning, or have him raid their refrigerator, or anything for that matter...

Regardless, Gilbert loved Roderich, even his prissy, stuck-up moments. He just found it annoyingly unfair that his boyfriend's womanly behaviour set a double standard: Gilbert was always wrong. Gilbert could hardly comprehend that reason. He was always right. He, the essence of awesome and personification of the most badass nation to ever grace the map, was never wrong. Ever.

Gilbert was at the bar now to get away from all of that. Annoyed with Roderich's constant criticism, he'd told him that he had an important meeting to attend on Saturday night. Roderich had simply scoffed, saying that he couldn't even make time to be with his boyfriend, and another argument had ensued for the following ten minutes. Roderich eventually left in the late afternoon, hypocritically having a meeting of his own to attend, and the Prussian was free to head to the bar to meet up with his friend. He felt slightly bad about lying to the Austrian, but he needed this glorious drinking time.

The bartender behind the counter approached the Prussian, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Are you ready to order yet, monsieur?"

Gilbert shook his head. "Nah, I'm still waiting on a friend." At that moment, his phone buzzed again, and he opened it to receive another text message.

The Second Most Awesomest Person: you can in a minute. i'm walking in.

Almost immediately, Gilbert's head snapped up and he turned to the doorway. The door was being pushed open by a tall, youthful young man with hair the color of wheat gold, and laughing cerulean eyes. He pushed a pair of glasses up on his nose, and a sunny smile broke out on his face when he noticed Gilbert.

Gilbert grinned maniacally and jumped up from the barstool, reaching out to grab the hand of the American. "Hey, Al! Long time, no see!"

Alfred F. Jones, nineteen-year-old representation of the United States of America, returned the handshake and slapped Gilbert on the back. "Yeah! Thanks for calling me over here, I appreciate it!" Alfred still wore his brown bomber jacket from the 1940s, but over a white T-shirt and with jeans. He looked as joyful as he always had.

Gilbert grinned, leading him to the counter. "No problem. I mean, you're probably the only other nation who comes relatively close to my awesome, so..."

Alfred laughed heartily. "Thanks, Gilbert! I am a hero, after all." He waved the bartender over, and flashed a cheerful smile. In French, he politely asked for a beer, and then turned to Gilbert. "Whaddya want to drink tonight?"

Gilbert leaned over. "Same as him," he replied in French, jerking a thumb towards Alfred.

The bartender nodded. "IDs, please."

Alfred and Gilbert flashed their driver's licenses respectively. The bartender took a long look at Alfred's before heading back to the fountains to fill their glasses.

"How old are you, now, anyway?" Gilbert commented, shoving his ID back into the pocket of his skinny jeans. "You look maybe seventeen. Twenty if you lose the dopey smile. Not gonna lie, it makes you look like you conked your head and dropped a couple dozen IQ points."

"Nineteen," corrected Alfred, grinning broadly and brimming with pride. He blissfully ignored Gilbert's snide comment. "The legal drinking age here is eighteen, so I pass." The bartender returned at that moment with two foaming glasses of beer. Alfred thanked him and picked up his respective mug. "I'm glad I do. My boss sometimes doesn't let me drink in states where it's illegal for me to."

"That's bullshit," Gilbert stated, taking a swig of his drink. "You're the fucking United States. Of America, or something."

"Yeah, I know," Alfred replied, taking his first sip. "But anyway, sorry I'm late. Iggy wanted to have a 'serious talk about our relationship' before I left for my 'meeting back home'."

Gilbert broke into raucous laughter. "Kesese! You used that excuse, too? Hah!"

Alfred laughed out loud. "I haven't had a drinking day in months, are you kidding?" He took another sip of his beverage. "Iggy wouldn't let me leave without a decent excuse. He still thinks I'm underage or some silly reason like that, even though his own boss says otherwise." He sipped again, noisily.

Gilbert nodded. "Yeah, I can't see Arty letting you off the hook so easily."

"Not at all," Alfred replied, slightly dismayed. "Anyway, he wanted to say that I was nothing more than a lazy, disorganized moron who didn't care about anything except himself." The blonde shrugged. "But maybe he's just angry with something else. He knows I'm a hero." Alfred attempted flashing his typical, pearly smile.

"That sucks, man. Roddy's been the same way." Gilbert drained the rest of his glass and waved to the bartender. "He's always going on and on about how I'm stupid and don't give a fuck about anything."

"Same with Iggy," Alfred replied with a dejected smile. "It's like I can't do anything right. He especially gets angry when I don't want to eat his scones, even if they're more charcoal than dough. A hero can't be awesome if he's suffering from food poisoning, you know."

Gilbert shuddered. "You poor, poor thing." He reached out to grab his new mug of beer with one hand and patted Alfred's shoulder with the other. "No one should have to suffer that."

"Iggy tries to be a good cook, he just isn't," Alfred admitted. "I try to tell him jokingly, but he still gets angry at me and then tells me everything he hates about me. How could he find anything to hate?" He glanced worriedly at Gilbert with wide blue eyes. "I'm basically perfect at everything I do."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Yeah, man, I feel you. Arthur's obsessed with you, though. Ever since the Great War, he's been trying to get into your pants."

"Longer," Alfred confirmed. "Well, not the getting into my pants part."

"Yeah, he's had a huge thing for you. I had that for Roddy, and vice versa, but he was too dense to notice that I did. Stupid aristocrat."

"Really? How could he have done that?"

Gilbert repressed a laugh. The American himself had done the same thing to Arthur. "Well, he was in denial. I was, too, since, y'know, he's an aristocratic stick-in-the-mud, and I'm this hunk of awesome that descended from God while a fucking glowing choir of angels sang in the background. Y'know."

Alfred chuckled, waving for his second glass. "He's kinda like Iggy, I guess." A tiny smile graced his lips. "He still nagging at you?"

"Sadly," grumbled the Prussian. "Get this; he told me today that I was an immature arsch. I mean, first of all, that's completely untrue, second of all, he expects me to lavish all of this love on him after that."

Alfred raised a dark blonde eyebrow over the rim of his glass. "Iggy says I'm dense and I'm an obese freak."

"Fucking moron. You go to the gym twice a week." "Three, now that I'm being yelled at every day." Alfred's smile drooped.

"Arthur's such a little princess," Gilbert muttered. "I used to go drinking with him and the guys back when he had that fling with Francis in the 20s, y'know, before all the money and stuff got completely fucked, and he was really chill. After he got wasted, though..." Gilbert laughed. "He would cry about you and shit. And then threaten to punch us all out and set his navy on us for letting him get so stinking drunk."

Alfred laughed. "Sounds like Iggy!" He took another gulp of beer. "He keeps threatening to break up with me if I don't 'act civilized'."

The Prussian's scarlet eyes widened, and he pointed at Alfred mid-sip. "That!" he spluttered. "Both our damn boyfriends are attracted to us for the very reason they hate us."

"What's that?" The American cocked his head.

"Because we're loud and crazy and we're not the type to shut ourselves up with tea and sit in sewing circles."

"Yeah, Iggy knits. Blankets and stuff. He says Roderich does, too."

Gilbert snorted. "Of course he does. He's Roddy."

After several more drinks, the American was struggling to sit up straight on his stool, and the Prussian was only slightly buzzed. His alcohol tolerance, being a Germanic nation, had far surpassed Alfred's.

"Iggy...Iggy told me once that he..." Alfred hiccuped, "learned...well, all of his charms, shall we say, on a pirate ship. I thought those were all part of fairytales." He grinned stupidly in Gilbert's direction.

"Kesese!" chuckled Gilbert. "Roddy screwed Vash once, can you believe that?" He continued laughing until he hiccuped violently. "Shit, they had a one night stand...or...or somthin'. So screwed up, ya know? They both hate each other's guts!"

Alfred laughed, flinging himself onto the counter. "What?" He laughed harder. "Man, all the cool shit happens in Europe. I wish I was alive before I was born, I could've come and partied with you guys."

"When you and Matt were babies, Arthur came with Antonio, Francis, and I, and we all got wasted as fuck." Gilbert snorted and burst into laughter. "And then Roderich called us all idiots!"

"Roderich likes you," Alfred slurred. "It's like, like he's a woman. God, I thought he was a woman, because he wears purple and does his hair and likes cleaning and cooking and other woman things. Is he a woman, Gil?"

"Nah, I made sure of that," Gilbert replied, draining his fifth glass and swaying slightly. "Ya see, even when he was married to Lizzie, he was still the woman."

Alfred smiled, his eyes bleary. "Iggy doesn't have woman stuff. Just a tattoo."

"Of what?"

"Um, it's of his flag or somethin' like that. He got it in the 90s when he wore all that leather." Alfred leaned back into midair, the liquid in his glass sloshing around dangerously. "Gotta say, tight leather..." He attempted to make a cat noise, but it only sounded like a drunken gargle.

"Hot," grinned Gilbert, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "And he's still a pansy?"

"Yeah, but he's my pansy," Alfred commented in a drunken state of bliss. "He's prob'ly wonderin' where I am...fuck...told him the meeting ended at ten or whatever."

"Let him worry," Gilbert protested. "It's boy's night! We're real men, dominant, hard-ass, awesome motherfuckers, and we'll go home to our boyfriends who obsess over cake and magic!"

"Iggy likes ponies. He thinks the horny ones are magical." Alfred tried to repress his giggles, and his voice came out in a hiss. "He likes unicorns and he talks to the My Little Ponies in the Happy Meals!" In a fit of giggles, the American shook until he slipped and fell off of the barstool. "They don't talk!"

"...Horny?" Gilbert looked down; Alfred was still giggling as he lay facedown on the floor. "Ponies!" he laughed gleefully.

The Prussian reached down and helped Alfred regain his balance. "Awesome people don't lay on the floor," he criticized. "We sit up here like kings!" He cackled. "Life's good, Al, life's good." He slapped Alfred on the back and drained the rest of his glass.

Alfred shakily seated himself on his stool once more. "Yep, it is. I wake up every day and I'm a fucking hero with a fucking princess!"

"I'm just awesome." Gilbert leaned on the counter, trying not to slip and fall in the process. "I've got a boyfriend who bakes me cake. Motherfucking cake."

"Mine makes scones," Alfred replied glumly, stumbling over the word. "They're only good for building things. Like towers. And they make good rocks. I put them in the backyard around his herb garden."

"Awesome!" Gilbert exclaimed, roaring with drunken laughter. "You get away with it?"

"Iggy found 'em. He says that one of his unicorns found one. Yelled at me all week long."

"See, Al," Gilbert said, sobering up enough to pat his friend on the back, "all you really need is some decent cooking. I'll fax you some cake."

"Gil, you can't really do that, you know."

"Of course I can; I'm fucking awesome."

Later, after the pair rambled more about how awesome they were and divulged all of the secrets in their respective relationships, they were kicked out of the bar. It was nearly three in the morning and they could both barely stand. Francis, who happened to be wandering the streets of a lazy, post-midnight Paris, ended up finding the both of them leaning against a brick wall in an alleyway, still giggling and bleary-eyed.

The Frenchman sighed. "Mon Dieu, this happens every month." He hauled the two drunken men to their feet, leading them in the direction of his own home.

"Hey, Francis," Alfred slurred, grinning eagerly yet sleepily at the newcomer. "Wanna come drinking with us?"

"I think you've had one too many, mon ami," Francis replied, "but I surely won't turn down your offer the next time." With a wink in the direction of the intoxicated American, Francis guided the pair through the dark, lamplit streets of Paris.

Meanwhile, in Hungary, two men sat in high-backed armchairs in front of a cold fireplace. On the coffee table, steaming, porcelain teacups filled with tea rested on dainty, matching saucers. The rest of the glass tabletop was strewn with yarn.

"The bloody oaf wanted to go out drinking," complained Arthur Kirkland, his large eyebrows furrowing in discontent as he furiously worked his knitting needles. "I had to practically force an excuse out of him! And then he lied and told me it was a meeting instead. I just let him go off and make a fool out of himself at the bar."

Roderich rubbed his temples with one hand and reached for a new roll of yarn with the other. "Gilbert doesn't even stick around to tell me his plans. He's just here one moment and gone the next...but he always comes back past midnight drunk, the ass."

"Alfred's such a child," Arthur grumbled. His emerald eyes focused intently on his needlework, but he looked up occasionally at Roderich. "The wanker absolutely cannot stand that he cannot have everything his own way. He needs to understand that he needs to act civilized. I colonized him, after all!"

"That's my dilemma as well." Roderich leaned back in the cushioned chair. "And Gilbert doesn't even care. He's horribly immature, and an arsch at times."

"Alfred simply doesn't care as well," Arthur sympathized. "I keep trying to talk to him about our relationship, but he doesn't seem to listen."

"You know, Arthur, we're in the same boat. I don't know what I'd do if we didn't have our monthly rants. Our boyfriends are much too dense and self-centered to figure out where we go, anyway." Roderich pushed his spectacles up on his nose and began knitting once more.

Arthur nodded. "Agreed."

At that moment, Elizaveta walked into her living room, two boxes of Belgian chocolates in her hands. "Have I missed the juicy gossip?" she asked teasingly, moving the piles of yarn to make space for the chocolates. "I brought some chocolate, ladies. Calories help when ranting about men."

Roderich scowled at her and lay his knitting in his lap. He reached for a chocolate. "You have no idea what we have to deal with."

Elizaveta smiled, turning on her heel to leave the room. Under her breath, she whispered to herself, "Maybe, but I do know what Alfred and Gilbert have to deal with.